Cat-astrophe
by Got Tea
Summary: This time it's not just Grace who's feeling under the weather. Set in the Communication Universe.


**Set in the Communication Universe, this was supposed to be just a little ficlet, something small to play around with as a break from working on longer fics. And yet again it didn't work out that way. Thanks to Joodiff for the beta. Happy reading. :) xx**

* * *

 **Cat-astrophe**

 **…**

" _Grace_!"

The panicked shout echoes through the downstairs hallway and makes her stumble slightly in surprise as she makes her way slowly down the stairs. Gripping the banister tightly, she pauses to steady herself, heart pounding and the breath catching in her throat as she recovers her balance. She's so tired today; so tired and so sluggish that such a slip could have been a catastrophe.

Boyd appears at the bottom of the stairs, sees her face, and the already stressed look in his eyes becomes even more stricken as he instantly guesses what has just happened.

"Fuck," he swears, bounding up the stairs and seizing her by the waist, holding her firmly as she makes her way down. Grace can feel the impatience in him, feel the tension in every muscle as he steadies her, almost hurries her.

"Peter, what's the matter?" she finally asks as they reach the reliably solid ground floor. For a moment he says nothing, just guides her to the living room and helps her into a chair.

Then, "Where are you hurt?" he queries, and she doesn't miss the urgency in his tone, the fear as he kneels in front of her and holds her shoulders, his eyes running over her body.

Grace blinks at him, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"The blood," he mutters, "where have you cut yourself?"

"What blood?" Genuinely oblivious to what he is talking about, Grace stares at him. "Peter, I'm fine. I promise, there's no blood."

Evidently he doesn't believe her, or he's too rattled by whatever has come over him, because he's impatiently pulling the sleeves of her baggy sweater up, fingers running over her arms, searching, probing. Just as she expects he finds nothing, but that only seems to spur him on because the next thing she knows he's lifting the hem, pulling it up and examining her belly and her sides, his hands gentle but persistent.

"Peter," she gasps, trying to squirm away from him as he moves to her hips, inadvertently tickling her through the thin material of her comfy leggings. "Stop, I'm not hurt, I'm fine."

He's single-minded though, clearly intent on not stopping until he's absolutely certain that she's not injured. His hands run the length of her legs before pulling away from the black fabric, his eyes then scanning his own skin for any trace of her blood. He even goes as far as pulling her slippers off to check her feet.

Utterly bemused, Grace watches as he finally rocks back onto his heels and stares up at her, expression visibly relaxing, though his eyes remain confused. "Satisfied?" she demands, aware her tone is bordering on sharp. He's not answering her though, and it's unnerving.

It's so unlike him.

The relief in him is palpable as he gets to his feet and pulls her bodily off the chair and into his arms, his grip a little too tight to be comfortable. She's far too tired to resist him though; the effects of the latest round of chemo are beginning to make themselves known, leaving her exhausted and lethargic; by tomorrow she won't be getting out of bed, she knows.

"What's going on?" she asks, voice muffled by his shoulder. He's still incredibly tense, though he seems to be relaxing a little. "Peter, talk to me…"

She feels him swallow before he speaks. "There's blood all over the kitchen. I walked in and I thought you were…"

Grace pulls away from him, tries to head out of the room.

He holds on, though, and now it is his turn to be perplexed. "What?"

Not stopping, she tugs on the hand that grabs hers, trying to break away. "Grace?"

She looks back over her shoulder at him, amazed he hasn't connected the dots. But then again, he's so incredibly protective of her that it's not inconceivable he panicked just a little bit. "If it's not you, and it's not me, then that only leaves – "

"Freyja," he interrupts, suddenly bursting back into movement and hurrying past her. He doesn't let go of her hand though, effectively towing her in his wake as he makes his way toward the kitchen. It's uncomfortable, certainly, but she says nothing, just concentrates instead on trying to coordinate her feet fast enough not to trip.

The kitchen is silent, and as she stands in the doorway Grace can immediately see why he reacted the way he did. There's blood smeared across the floor and up one of the cabinets, as well as along the counter towards the cardboard box atop the boiler and on the table. It looks like a war zone; as though something has gone very, very wrong.

"My God," she murmurs, staring in shock.

For a moment she wonders how on earth he thought this could be from her, but he's been very edgy the last few days, watching her like a hawk, and for him to walk in late from work to this... Well, it's a gut reaction, no doubt.

"She's not in her box," Boyd says, after striding across the room to check.

Grace walks to the table, grips the edge firmly and crouches down on shaky legs, peering underneath. "Freyja?"

The cat is lying on her side, pressed up against the wall at the far edge of the table. There's blood all across the floor, and Freyja is licking her right hind leg. "What have you done, baby cat?" asks Grace, sinking to her knees and crawling under the table, reaching out a hand to gently stroke those soft, pointy ears. A quiet, subdued mew meets her ears, and she reaches for the cat, carefully lifting her up and against her chest before shuffling awkwardly out from under the table.

"Christ," mutters Boyd, as the two emerge. "That looks bad. It's really deep." He crouches down and gently examines Freyja, who has a long gash running the length of her lower leg from just above the paw, all the way up to the middle of the thigh. Her luxurious silvery fur is dark and wet, matted with blood. "How did this happen, trouble?"

"Will the vet still be open?" asks Grace, looking up at the clock. Boyd glances at his watch and nods.

"Yeah. Here…" he leans backwards, stretches and reaches blindly into a drawer, pulling out a clean tea towel. Between them they carefully wrap it around the bloody wound, stemming the flow. "Can you keep hold her while I fetch the cat basket?"

Grace nods, slowly smoothing her hand over the soft fur, carefully avoiding the grisly injury. "What mischief did you get into to cause this, hmm, Frey'? That's a really nasty cut you've managed to get there."

The cat purrs, head-butting her hand as she tickles the fuzzy fur under her jaw, and Grace smiles. "Still a happy little soul, eh? Even though you've been in the wars." Leaning back against a table leg for support, Grace draws her knees up, keeping the cat cradled against her chest as she scans the room for any sign of what could have caused this. She finds nothing.

It's horribly worrying.

Boyd returns, carrying the grey plastic cat basket he bought a couple of weeks ago for Freyja's appointment at the end of the month, and subsequently stashed under the stairs out of the way. Grace looks over at him at the same time the cat does, and then she yells out in pain and surprise.

Boyd's face is a picture, she thinks vaguely, even as she twists away from the claws that have suddenly sunk deep into her legs and arm. In her lap Freyja is suddenly hissing and snarling, her fur standing up on end as she seems to swell to twice her normal size. "Stop it," shouts Grace, trying unsuccessfully to scruff her precious pet as the cat fights her way out of the shelter of her arms, scrambling away from her and savaging her delicate skin in the process. "Freyja, no!"

It doesn't make a blind bit of difference, the shouting. The cat is across the room, on the counter, and then up onto the cooker hood and the cabinets beyond, out of even Boyd's reach as she bolts to the corner of the room and stands there, pressed against the walls, howling and spitting in furious defiance from high above their heads, ears flat to her skull, her back arched and her teeth bared and gleaming bright white.

" _What the hell?"_ gapes Boyd, alternately staring up at the enraged cat and then down at Grace, before finally looking at the basket in his hand. He lifts it up, bewildered, and the vicious snarling increases significantly.

"Put it in the hallway and shut the door," orders Grace, her voice a lot weaker than she'd intended. She's absolutely not going to admit it to him, but the last few minutes have shaken her. Freyja is naughty when she wants to be, but unless Eve pays a visit she is generally incredibly placid, and even then all she tends to offer is a little growl and a bit of hissing. This… is significantly worse than that.

And finding her under the table like that…

Staggering unsteadily to her feet, Grace leans against the table and pulls up her sleeves, surveying the damage. There are long grazes to her right arm which are bleeding, and red-speckled dots on both arms from where those needle-sharp claws sank in.

"For fuck's sake," growls Boyd, reappearing and scowling at the injuries.

Grace shakes her head and shrugs. "It's not that bad."

"Like hell it isn't," he snaps, guiding her over to the sink.

"Stop it," she grumbles. "What's got into you today? You're pushing and pulling me around like I'm a piece of furniture. I'm rather more fragile than that, I'll have you know."

He stops, stares down at her. His eyes are dark and impenetrable, his expression closed and guarded. "Oh, I know that, Grace. I really, _really_ do." The fear in his tone makes her skin prickle uncomfortably.

"It's just a few scratches," she soothes. "It's not the end of the world." She puts a hand on his chest, looks up at him. Lets him see the gentle affection in her eyes. "It's okay, Peter. Honestly, it is. I'm fine."

The tension is still visibly there, but he nods and then sighs, letting out a long breath before framing her face with his hands and leaning down, nuzzling her hair before resting his head against hers. "I know," he mutters, voice muffled. "I just… every time you go for chemo I feel like the world is going to fall apart around me. I can't help it. I'm sorry."

She can't chastise him for it, not when he only has her best interests at heart. Not when he cares so, so much. "It's all right," she soothes. "We're in uncharted water here, but so far so good, remember?"

"I know, I know," he sighs, holding her closer.

It's like being wrapped up in a warm, comfy blanket when he gives her a big hug, and she adores it. Would love to stay exactly where she is, but there are more pressing matters at hand at the moment. "We need to get to the vet," she reminds him.

Boyd straightens, runs a gentle hand over the woolly hat that is hiding her non-existent hair. "We do," he agrees. "But not before I clean your scratches."

"Peter," she begins, thinking of Freyja's bloody wound.

"No, Grace," he replies, utterly resolute as he lifts her up and deposits her on the work surface. "It's not negotiable. I'm cleaning these before we take her. There's no telling what sort of bacteria are on her claws, and the last time you had a 'tiny little cut' I woke up in the middle of the night thinking you were dead in bed beside me. I am never, _ever_ going through that again. _Never_!"

There's not a lot she can say to that, so Grace simply sits quietly and waits as he fetches the first aid kit. "Besides," he adds as he busies himself with carefully, meticulously cleaning each and every one of her scratches, "look at her – she needs to calm herself down before we can even try and take her somewhere."

He's right, so Grace says nothing, just closes her eyes as he further inspects her wounds before applying antiseptic and a light bandage. It feels rather like overkill, but the guilt caused by the nightmares he still suffers from but won't admit anything about to her is far too raw for her to resist or put up any further argument. And when he finally finishes and asks her if there are any other marks on her body, she simply nods and indicates her legs. She can feel the burn of the savaged skin, after all, and she doesn't complain as he rests his hands on her waist and lifts; she simply hooks her fingers into the waistband of her leggings and peels them down to her knees.

"Bloody hell," he grumbles, seeing the state of her thighs.

She doesn't miss the hint of stress in his tone as he speaks, even through the irritated front he's putting on, but Grace still shrugs. "Thin skin," she says, surveying the mess. "Not a good combination with sharp claws."

"Not at all." Boyd shakes his head, glances up above them at Freyja, who is still grumbling in the back of her throat, and then resumes his work. "You've done a bloody good job on mummy's legs here," he scolds lightly, looking up again. The furry face watching them both retreats from view, and the growling dies down and comes to an end.

Grace yelps as the antiseptic stings viciously in the deepest of the savage scratches, and Boyd looks at her, wincing. "Sorry, sorry," he chants, but she shakes her head and motions for him to carry on, clenching her teeth until the bite of pain recedes.

"She was scared," she muses, taking a slow breath and watching him work, entranced by just how gentle he is as he touches her wounds, as he rubs antiseptic into them.

"Freyja isn't afraid of anything," he scoffs, shaking his head. "That's what keeps getting her into trouble."

"Oh, she was, Peter," Grace insists. "She was terrified. The second she saw that basket she went crazy."

"You don't think that was anger? That she just didn't want to go in it?"

She thinks about it, then shakes her head. "No. We've seen her angry, remember? When Jane from next door came round and had her German Shepherd on the porch with her. He tried to get in the house and Freyja went crazy. That was completely different to this. She was _furious_ that the dog tried to get in the house. This time she looked spooked; terrified even."

Boyd inclines his head. "You're right – I'd forgotten about the dog incident. She was so fierce," he grins, and Grace rolls her eyes at the pride in his tone. Freyja really is daddy's little girl, she thinks, trying not to laugh at the concept. "Jane's face was priceless," he snorts, slipping a hand beneath her knee so he can lift her leg enough to wrap a bandage over the wounds.

"The dog's face was funnier," Grace reminds him, grinning in spite of herself. "That great big hulking German Shepherd brought to a cower by a kitten barely as big as its head…"

"She was bristling something shocking," laughs Boyd. He looks up, sees the face peering over the edge at him again. "Weren't you girl?"

A subdued meow reaches their ears as Freyja glances at the kitchen door. She knows the basket is out there, thinks Grace. "I wish we knew what had happened to her before we got her," she sighs, looking up at those pretty green eyes that are now watching them both intently.

"I have a feeling we really wouldn't want to know," Boyd tells her. Grace agrees, though she doesn't say it. The thought of anyone abusing such a beautiful, loving creature… Abusing any creature…

"She doesn't like belts," remembers Grace suddenly, thinking back to an incident they had over Christmas.

"Doesn't like is an understatement," mutters Boyd, clearly also remembering how they'd learned not to let the cat see the belts hanging on the back of the wardrobe door. "She doesn't like loud bangs either."

A week after she'd joined them, Grace had dropped a saucepan in the kitchen. They'd almost had to scrape the cat off the ceiling, before she vanished under the bed for hours, terrified and refusing to come out.

"You're right," whispers Grace, "I really can't bear thinking about what might have happened to her."

"Don't then," is the brisk, but not unkind response. He's not disregarding her feelings, not at all, he's just trying to redirect the conversation away from a minefield neither of them wants to be wandering in. "Think about how loved and happy she is now."

It's a much safer option. But one with a few problems right at this moment. "What are we going to do?" she asks. "Wrap her in a blanket? Take her in her bed instead?"

"Her bed might be a good idea, I suppose," agrees Boyd, still concentrating on his work. "She arrived here in a cardboard box, it won't hurt her to go for a trip out in one."

It doesn't occur to either of them to force her into the basket, only to find another option.

"Are you finished?" asks Grace, as he applies the last bit of bandage and checks his work. It seems rather like overkill, but she's not going to tell him that. At least it's only taken him a few minutes and they haven't wasted much time before heading for the vet. He is right, though, she thinks, about cleaning the scratches.

It's just over twenty four hours now since she sat through the latest round of treatment, and there really is no telling what germs might have made it into the bloody scrapes on her legs and arm. Not a good combination, especially when she's really starting to feel the relentless pull of lethargy, and the deep ache in her joints that won't go away for days. Not that she's going to tell him that, especially not when Freyja is sitting quietly watching them instead of trying to get involved with helping. She's grateful, though. So incredibly grateful that he cares so much, that he does so much for her.

"Yep," he nods, straightening up and washing the antiseptic cream off his hands before packing away the first aid supplies again.

"Thank you," smiles Grace, hiding her amusement at his quick, methodical movements as she reaches out and touches his shoulder.

He pauses and studies her, strokes her arm softly. Leans in for a kiss when she tugs lightly on his sweater. "You're welcome," he nods when they separate. "If I can grab hold of madam up there then hopefully I won't be too long, but if I am don't wait up for me because – "

"Oh, no!" interrupts Grace. "Absolutely not."

" _Grace_."

It's a warning, but one she roundly ignores. Glaring at him, she shakes her head firmly. "No! I'm coming with you, and that's that. She's my cat too."

"But – "

She doesn't give him a chance to continue. Isn't prepared give any ground in this instance at all. "I'll go and put some warmer clothes on," she informs him, sliding off the counter as she speaks, trying to pull her leggings back up at the same time. Unfortunately she staggers as she lands, and has to cling on tightly, even as he grabs her and steadies her, but she refuses to acknowledge, or show, how tired she's feeling. "You catch her and then we'll go." She straightens, starts to walk across the room. "The sooner we go, the sooner we'll get back," she continues, getting her words out before Boyd can say anything else. "I won't be long."

Putting as much spring in her step as she can muster, she leaves the room and heads for the stairs, cutting off any chance he has to protest. For good measure, she grabs his car keys from the hall table as she passes, to prevent him from thwarting her plan. No way is she staying behind when Freyja is in the state she's in. To hell with chemotherapy and exhaustion.

She makes her way up the stairs, hand clenched around the bannister, arm and legs throbbing with soreness where the scratch marks are pulling as she walks. There's a lot of shouting and swearing emanating from the kitchen as she exchanges leggings for jeans and layers long sleeves under her jumper before adding a scarf and jacket, and she wonders who has the upper hand. Boyd is undoubtedly incredibly stubborn, but Freyja can be extremely feisty when she wants to be.

She makes it back downstairs, feeling a little more than just a bit lightheaded with tiredness and the effort of hurrying, and finds him searching for his keys. Wordlessly holding them out to him as he keeps the rattling, complaining cardboard box under his arm clenched shut, she says nothing as he scowls at her, fully well aware that he's just been outmanoeuvred. Short of locking her in the house, there's nothing he can do though, and from the look in his eyes he knows it.

"Shall we go?" she asks amiably, reaching for the door handle.

Boyd growls and mutters under his breath as he follows her out, but he also helps her into the car, waits patiently as she fastens her seatbelt, and then carefully places the cardboard box on her lap, checking she's able to hold onto it without a struggle before he returns to lock up the house and then get into the driver's seat.

Unable to help herself, Grace pulls up one of the box flaps and peers inside. Green eyes stare up at her, a plaintive meow rising to fill the car.

"It's okay," she soothes, reaching into the box and slowly stroking the velvety ears. "The vet will be nice – they'll fix you up. You'll be back to normal in no time, I promise. And daddy will spoil you rotten while your leg gets better, I bet."

Beside her, Boyd scoffs. "She doesn't need spoiling any more than she already is," he announces, but it's all for show, and she knows it. He adores his kitten, just like he adores her.

The car draws to a halt at a junction. "Do you know where you're going?" asks Grace, helpfully.

A brief glare comes her way, before he concentrates on turning right and then changing lanes. "Of course I do. I looked up where it is when I made the appointment for her injections."

"Okay," agrees Grace, smiling down at Freyja, batting playfully at the paw that is reaching up towards her. "I mean, we've never been there before, but if you're sure…"

Quite why she's needling him, she doesn't really know, but it's good fun, and it's been a while since they bickered simply for the fun of it.

"Oh ye of little faith," he mutters, turning left and then left again.

"I still can't understand how she managed to do it."

Boyd shakes his head. "Me either. I looked all around the kitchen after you went upstairs and I couldn't find anything. It's bothering me."

"And me."

"The vet," says Boyd dryly a few moments later, pulling into the carpark and bringing the Audi to a smooth halt. "I hope you are suitably impressed."

"Oh, immeasurably," Grace agrees, face poker straight. "Despite the fact that you went the long way around after missing the turn for Willow Road."

He twists in his seat, stares at her. "One day, Grace, one day…"

"One day?" she enquires, an innocent twinkle in her eyes.

"One day," he continues, leaning in close to whisper straight into her ear, "when you're fit and healthy…"

Something prickles warmly down her spine, adds a husky note to her tone as she asks, "Yes..?"

His breath tickles her ear, his nose just catching the shell. "You carry on provoking me, and I might just forget that I'm a gentleman."

Solemn, she looks up at him. "And I shall look forward to it, handsome."

Boyd groans as she plants a quick, impish kiss on the end of his nose, her eyes laughing at him. He looks down into the box, reaches for the paw Freyja offers and allows her to curl her toes around his finger as she does at home in the evenings when she's curled up in his lap. "Your mummy is a tease," he tells her. "And it's not fair."

"'One day,'" she quotes back at him, enjoying his expression as she nods towards the door. "Shall we?"

Inside it is quiet, calm and clean. Sterile, even, though the bright posters on the walls that advertise pet health products or remind owners of the importance of vaccinations and check-ups add something cheerful to the atmosphere. There are a few other customers, and, in a habit born out of spending his adult life as a police officer, Boyd settles their little family at the far end of the row of waiting room seats, where he has a good view of everyone else, the room, and the doors.

Grace gives in to temptation and opens the box a fraction again. Freyja hasn't moved, and she's now beginning to look distinctly sorry for herself. There's quite a lot of blood matted in her silvery fur, despite the tea towel still wrapped around her leg, preventing her from getting at the injury and stopping further heavy blood loss.

"Look at you," sighs Grace, sadness pinching her heart. "You look so miserable." Tears prickle in the corner of her eyes at the forlorn look on the cat's face as she lies still in the box, curled awkwardly around her bandaged leg.

Boyd sits twisted in his seat, and he slips an arm around her, something Grace is grateful for. It's a show of comfort, and not something she's used to feeling from him in public, but then, she tells herself, they rarely go out anywhere together that isn't doctor or hospital related.

 _One day_ , she tells herself. One day they are going to be a real, normal couple, doing all the things that normal couples do.

That's all irrelevant now though, as he reaches into the box to stroke Freyja, talking softly to her as the waiting room slowly empties, even as he keeps an arm around Grace, his hand resting on her shoulder as he leans his head close to hers. "She's still purring, aren't you, eh?" he notes, squeezing Grace's shoulder lightly in reassurance. "So it can't be that bad, can it. A few stitches as she'll be as good as new, running around causing mayhem again."

"I really hope so," whispers Grace, wipes her eyes. It's silly, she thinks, blinking hard, but then, the little cat has become so much a part of their tiny family that it's upsetting to see her hurt.

Suddenly the consulting room door just beyond them opens and a very large, very springy wolfhound bounces out, towing its inattentive owner behind. The dog makes a beeline for the cardboard box on Grace's lap, barking loudly and deeply in excitement and thrusting its big wet nose inside just as its owner shouts an ineffective warning.

"Frodo, NO!"

The dog is so big that Grace doesn't have the chance to move out of the way, and it appears so quickly that not even Boyd is fast enough to fend it off. An enraged snarl, coupled with a deep, long hiss sounds from within the box, and tiny grey paw with black toes and long, sharp claws flies forward, smacking that wet nose in a series of extremely rapid and incredibly accurate strikes. Frodo yelps and leaps backwards, bowling over his owner; the pair end up sprawled on the floor in a tangle of legs, paws and brown leather lead whilst the snarling inside the box dies down to a low, warning growl.

"I'm so, so sorry," cries Frodo's owner, a petite woman in her early forties who is now back on her feet and blushing fiercely. "He's not normally so exuberant, it's just that he's been cooped up all day and he loves cats. We have six at home, and they're all his best friends, so he thinks all cats want to play…"

"It's fine," shrugs Boyd, looking down into the box, a gleam of something that looks suspiciously like pride in his eyes. "No damage done here."

Grace says nothing, not trusting herself to speak. She's not sure what she's finding funnier, whether it be the other woman's mortified expression, Freyja's continued irritation and the low level but definitely threatening growling that's still filling the air around them, or the way Frodo, who must easily be at least fifty five kilos, is now trying to hide his considerable bulk behind his owner, but whatever it is, she's on the verge of breaking out into peals of laughter.

Frodo eventually departs, head down and tail between his legs after more hurried and stumbling apologies, and then they are left waiting, the last people in the room.

"That's my girl," grins Boyd, ruffling Freyja's ears. "You show 'em who's boss!" Settling down again, she nibbles his finger, licks the knuckle. Head-butts his palm.

Grace gives in to the giggles, leans in to Boyd's chest and shoulder as he tightens his arm around her, and laughs long and hard as Freyja lets out one last grumble of displeasure and stretches slightly on her blanket, fur lying down again as she loses the bottle-brush look she had moments before. She still looks rather sorry for herself, but her irrepressible spirit doesn't seem to have diminished much at all.

"His face," Grace sniggers, thinking of Frodo hiding behind the woman, his head hanging, his eyes wide with fear as he peered around at the box from a safe distance, bewildered.

"I know," snorts Boyd. "That'll teach him to mess with our princess, the great big oaf." He shakes his head, tickles the cat under her jaw. "And you… so fierce!"

Their laughter is interrupted by a door opening and a tall, lanky woman in green scrubs with a mass of wild red curls escaping from a ponytail and framing her face appearing. "Freyja?" she calls, looking over at them.

Try as she might, Grace can't get her legs to work, can't gather the strength to stand up. Boyd says nothing but he lets his arm slide from her shoulders to her waist and holds on firmly, using his body to lift her too as he stands. On his feet he waits, holding her until she's steady, and then keeps his arm around her as she adjusts the box in her arms, as they walk forwards. She doesn't say anything either, but it's only his solid, reassuring weight that keeps her upright, stops her from staggering and falling as they make their way across the room. She'll hear about it when they get home, she knows. She's overreaching, and she'll pay later, but it's Freyja… and she's…

He'll be cross with her later. She's sure of it. Maybe.

He'll understand, of course, but there will be exasperated disapproval in his eyes as he helps her up the stairs when she's too weak to get herself there. And there will be overwhelming concern as he helps her get changed and into bed, as he sits next to her and gives her her medication, and she will feel incredibly guilty for making him worry even more than he already does.

Boyd leans down, whispers against her ear. "Stop it. It's okay, I get it."

Grace stumbles slightly, wants to cry when he catches her and Freyja, holds them both firmly, securely.

"I've got you," he tells her. "Relax, it's all right, I promise." He takes the box, tucks it under one arm, keeps the other wrapped around her and slowly they make their way into the consulting room.

She believes him, because he's never lied to her. He loves her, and she knows it. He wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it, she's sure.

"What have we got here?" asks the vet, whose name, she tells them, is Molly.

"Freyja," says Grace quietly. "We don't know what happened. We found her like this in the kitchen."

"There was blood everywhere," adds Boyd. "But she still managed to jump up onto the top of the cupboards, and then led me on a merry chase around the room when I tried to catch her."

"Does she go outside?" Molly peers into the box, opens the flaps fully to expose the slightly grumpy, slightly dishevelled cat lying inside. Ever curious, though, Freyja stands up and clambers out, dragging the bandaged leg behind her as she begins an exploration of the examination table.

"Only under supervision. She's had a couple of adventures up really tall trees and buildings, so mainly she's a house cat for the time being."

Molly laughs. "I see. So she's been indoors all day?"

Grace nods. "We haven't found whatever caused this. She's never hurt herself before."

The vet catches hold of Freyja, runs her hands over her body and checks her general health. "She's nicely fit and healthy," is the calm, quiet assessment. Freyja grumbles as Molly checks her teeth, but doesn't bite or resist. "Good girl," coos the vet. "You're really very beautiful, aren't you, hmm? Very soft, too."

Freyja purrs as the vet strokes her, bats at the long, elegant fingers that tease her nose and ears. "You know you're gorgeous, don't you?"

"She does," confirms Grace, smiling.

"Are you going to let me have a look at this leg, then?" Molly asks, reaching for the towel.

"I wasn't sure it was the right thing to do," confesses Boyd, his brow creased with worry as he watches. "But there was a lot of blood."

Molly smiles and nods. "It's okay, better to try and stop it than not. Oh dear, that's nasty, isn't it Freyja? What _have_ you been up to, kitty?"

The wound isn't bleeding anymore, but it is grisly and ugly in the bright light of the exam room. With the tea towel's bulk removed, Freyja paces across the table, sniffing everything thoroughly before preparing to jump down and wander the room.

"No you don't," scolds Molly, catching hold of her and lifting her back into the centre of the table. She glances at Boyd. "Can you hold her while I have a closer look at that leg? She might get a bit cross…"

Boyd snorts, and does as requested. "She has an attitude, when she wants to," he informs Molly. "Mostly she's very loving and playful, but she has a naughty streak, and if she doesn't like something she won't hesitate to let you know about it."

"I see," chuckles Molly, as she runs soothing fingers over Freyja's head and back before reaching for the damaged leg. "Rather like my two at home then. Hang on, here we go..."

The cat swears, Boyd scolds, and the vet prods, pokes and checks range of movement.

Grace watches it all, feeling more and more anxious. How has this happened? she questions. Did they leave something lying around that caused this injury? Or was it simply a freak accident?

"Okay," nods Molly, straightening. "It feels like the bones are intact, and there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with the joints – she's still using the leg as she should. I can't see any damage to ligaments or tendons, but without sedating her I can't say for certain."

"Sedating her," echoes Grace, a hollow, cold feeling spreading through her chest.

"Yes. That leg needs stitching, and cleaning. She won't let anyone do that while she's awake. It should be quite quick and simple. Let me listen to your chest, kitty," says Molly, taking her stethoscope and reaching for the cat again. Freyja looks astonished, tries to chew the instrument. Smacks Boyd's hand when he attempts to stop her.

"She's nice and healthy, but underweight, I think… Let's weigh her." There's a yelp of protest as four paws are settled on the scale, and then a nod. "Yeah, she's about half a kilo below what I'd like her minimum weight to be."

"She's gained a bit. She was a stray," explains Grace. "She was in fairly good health when we got her, but we don't know what happened to her before. We think she might have been abused – she has a few odd fears and reactions that make me think…" She stops; it's too hard to think of the beautiful, loving little cat as having been harmed by anyone.

"Hmm, okay." Molly puts Freyja back on the table and continues to assess her. "How long have you had her?"

"About two months," calculates Boyd, glancing at Grace. She nods in agreement.

Molly looks captures Freyja's head, looks at her eyes. "How old do you think she is?"

"Well, I took her to a vet to be checked over when I found her and he said she was about nine months – that was in early December," remembers Boyd. "She's definitely grown a bit since then."

"Hm. I'd put her at nine months now."

" _Is_ she otherwise healthy?" asks Grace, hearing the trace of fear in her own voice.

Molly looks up from her assessment and smiles. "Yes. She needs to gain some weight, but her eyes, teeth and coat are great, her chest is sound and she seems like a lively happy soul. I'll x-ray the leg to make sure, and sort her out, and she'll stay overnight with us just to be sure."

"Stay," repeats Grace, stricken.

"Only for tonight," Molly assures. "It's late in the day – I'll fix her up now, but we'll need to keep an eye on her for a while, and then check the leg in the morning before you can take her home."

Feeling Boyd's arm come to rest around her shoulders helps, but Grace can't shake the feeling of despair that washes over her. It's stupid, she knows, and rationally she knew they'd have to give her an anaesthetic to stitch that gash up, but somehow… the thought of spending a night at home without Freyja is horrible. Only two months they've had her in their lives, but already she can't stand the thought of going home to a quiet house, of settling on the sofa without that small whiskery face to cuddle up with her.

"She'll be okay," he murmurs. "Look at her – she's happy enough now as it is. She'll be fine."

Molly pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen. "No, Freyja, you can't eat the pen," she scolds, playing with the cat that is trying to help her as she makes notes.

"She likes pens," grins Boyd. "A lot."

Laughter precedes, "I can see that."

"We keep finding them stashed under the bed," explains Grace, brightening a little at that particular thought.

Molly looks at Freyja and raises her eyebrows. "Hoarder," she accuses, smirking. "What's her surname?"

"Boyd," says Boyd, just as Grace says,

"Foley."

Molly looks up at them from where she's leaning on the table. "Ah…"

Boyd looks down at Grace, folds his arms across his chest. "Grace," he begins.

"You brought her home for me," she reminds him. "To keep me company."

"But I found her," he protests.

Unmoved, Grace stands her ground. "And then gave her to me as a present, therefore, she's _my_ cat. Therefore she can have _my_ surname."

"That's ridiculous," he sniffs. "Are you telling me that if I asked you to marry me you wouldn't take my name?"

She hasn't got eyebrows to lift, but Grace can still put both hands on her hips and stare up at him, and she does. "Why? Are you planning to ask me?"

"We're not discussing that right now," he growls, a tiniest hint of redness appearing in his ears and cheeks as he blusters just a little. "And you didn't answer my question anyway."

It's too easy to fall into the familiar banter no matter where they are, it really is. Winding him up, teasing him… "Well you didn't answer mine!"

"Are you telling me you'd say no?"

He doesn't look even remotely worried. In fact, he looks amused. "Did I say that?" she retorts. "Besides, if you're not asking me, what does it matter what my answer might or might not be? And you still haven't answered my question."

"I don't need to answer yours – that would ruin any potential surprise, if there was one."

He looks thoroughly nettled, and no matter how bone-weary Grace is, how much she's hurting right now, it's still fun. Still reminds her of what it feels like to be so wonderfully alive. "If you say so. And anyway, your question is irrelevant to the matter at hand."

"No it's not!"

"Of course it is. What bearing does the vague possibility of you ever asking me to marry you have on what Freyja's surname should be?"

The look he gives her tells her he thinks it's perfectly obvious. "Because," he explains, in a tone that's just a little bit too measured to avoid hinting that he thinks she's being just a little bit slow here, "if you were to be Grace Boyd, it would be utterly stupid for her to be Freyja Foley. Obviously."

"Oh, _obviously_ ," she responds, scornfully.

"It's perfectly logical."

He's not going to budge. Sadly, she doesn't feel like giving in either. "If you think," she begins, but is interrupted by a cough.

"Excuse me? Grace?" Very polite, but firm, too.

Grace looks at Molly, who appears to be desperately trying to keep a straight face as she holds out her left palm where a small silver heptagonal shape is resting. "Heads or tails?"

"Tails," chooses Grace automatically, as she traditionally does.

The coin flips, is caught and placed on the back of Molly's other hand.

"It's heads," predicts Boyd, confidently. The vet pulls one hand away from the other; Britannia, seated beside a lion, is revealed.

"Ha," crows Grace, "I win!"

"Freyja Foley-Boyd it is then," declares Molly, quickly putting pen to paper.

"Foley-Boyd," repeats Boyd slowly, staring at the letters on the page as Grace laughs. "What if it had been heads?"

Molly looks up at him, her lips twitching. "Then she would have been Boyd-Foley. Obviously."

It's too much, it really is. Her already warm laughter becomes full blown glee at the expression on his face, and Molly's, and Grace clutches the edge of the table. Her eyes blur as she strokes Freyja, who has wandered over and is sat in front of her, impatiently head-butting her arm and squeaking loudly, asking for attention. Molly's shoulders are shaking, and she gives in to the giggles as well, prompting a real chuckle to break free from Boyd as well as he shakes his head in surrender.

For a moment Grace forgets everything that is wrong; she forgets Freyja's injury, how awful she feels, how guilty she feels about what it's all doing to Boyd, how screwed up their life is because of everything that's happened. She forgets it, and simply feels how incredible it is to laugh, to let some of the tension bleed away in a few moments of levity, and for those few precious seconds it's as if life is great, as though everything is normal.

"What are we going to do, baby cat?" she finally asks, fingers tickling the short fuzzy fur under Freyja's jaw. She's breathing heavily as they all begin to calm down, the bout of laughter having sapped the shreds of her remaining energy and left her with aching ribs. "Are you going to be a good girl?"

"She'll be fine," smiles Molly. "I'll give you a call tomorrow morning and let you know when you can pick her up. Don't worry, I'll take very good care of her."

…

The drive home is very quiet, neither of them saying much, or even knowing what to say.

"Peter," murmurs Grace, as he parks neatly beside her own car.

Boyd takes the keys out of the ignition and looks at her. "Yeah?"

She blinks, looks down. "I need some help," she admits. It's a huge effort just to get the seatbelt off and untangle her arm from it. "Please don't be cross with me. I _am_ sorry, but I couldn't not go."

He opens her door, crouches down beside her. "Look at me, Grace," he cajoles. She does, expecting him to be annoyed. She's done far too much, and she knows it. He'll be worried sick, and that's not fair. She's expecting him to give her a lecture on looking after herself, but as she meets his eyes, he leans in, frames her face with his hands, and kisses her with an impossible tenderness.

As gentle as he's ever been, he strokes her cheek. "It's okay, it really is. I meant what I said earlier – I get it."

It's mostly his muscle that gets her out of the car, and it's entirely his warm, solid body that keeps her upright as she slowly, painfully staggers into the house and up the stairs. By the time they get there she's so unsteady that it's his hands that carefully peel away the layers of her clothes and help her into pyjamas, his arms that support her and stop her from tumbling into the bed when her legs give way.

"Will you eat if I make you something?" he asks, and there's worry and resignation there in his face. He knows as well as she does that she won't be up and about for the best part of a week now. There's no sickness this time, just an utterly crippling exhaustion that completely swamps her.

"I'll try," she promises, feeling the heaviness and the drag of sleep in her bones. "Wake me up if I fall asleep." His hand is on her shoulder as the pillows meld around her; it's a huge effort, but she reaches for it, grasps his fingers and squeezes her thanks.

…

Grace sleeps through the evening and the night; she doesn't remember Boyd rousing her to press a straw to her lips, doesn't remember him encouraging her to drink the vitamin packed smoothie. She doesn't remember him waking beside her in the middle of the night when the nightmares stalk her, when she dreams of Freyja, alone, injured and out in the cold, when she cries and shouts and fights, trying to get to her beloved pet. She doesn't remember the way he holds her, the way he soothes her back into peaceful slumber, and she certainly doesn't remember the way he lies awake afterwards, fretting about her health and the cat's, and about what more he can do to help them both.

She wakes in the morning when he brings her breakfast, manages to get a few bites down. His face tells her he wishes it was more, so she tries, her hand trembling as she holds the spoon. He steadies her arm, supports her back, and she forces down the rest of the porridge. It's hard, very hard, but the look of relief in his eyes afterwards is worth it.

He helps her to the bathroom, showers with her because she doesn't have it in her to stand there alone. It's staggering, she thinks, how just thirty-six hours after the infusion of chemicals into her bloodstream she's so crippled with fatigue, so weakened that she can't even stand long enough to wash herself.

Boyd helps her back to bed, sits on the edge and cuddles her in his lap when she begs him to, because she knows it'll be hours before she sees him again, and it's a bleak, bleak day stretching out ahead of her, lying here and resting, dozing in and out; trying to recover. She despises herself for her weakness, but she loves him so much, and it feels so reassuring to be tucked away from everything in the warm, strong comfort of his embrace.

"Thank you," she mumbles, face hidden in his chest in shame.

His heavy sigh tells her everything. "If I could stay with you all day, I would."

"I know," she replies, her voice so quiet even she struggles to hear it as she forces herself not to cry. As her physical strength fades, so too does her mental strength and her ability to control her emotions. It's gruelling, to say the least. Brutal, on both of them.

Boyd holds her for a little longer, even helps her settle beneath the quilt once more before curling up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. "Go back to sleep, Grace," he urges, kissing the back of her neck. "I love you."

She's almost there when he gets up and dresses for work, watches blearily as he goes through his morning routine, fades out somewhere along the way and doesn't hear or see him leave. She sleeps, wakes, sleeps, wakes and sleeps again throughout the morning, and all of it is a hideous cycle of torment. Nightmares, endless staring at the ceiling; pain. It hurts to lie still for too long, it hurts to roll over. It even hurts to sit up and take some painkillers, sipping the glass of water to try and avoid dehydration, because that just makes everything worse.

Lunchtime arrives, but she dozes through, not noticing the weak winter sun tracking across the sky, changing the patterns of light inside the room. It is footsteps on the stairs that eventually pull her out of her uneasy dreams again; footsteps and the sound of a familiar voice talking softly. The bedroom door inches open quietly and Boyd appears. From her position lying with her head resting on his pillow she can see him clearly, can see the furry grey bundle tucked in his arms.

"Freyja," she breathes, happiness swimming through her at the sight. The cat looks sleepy and a little dishevelled, but otherwise okay. She squirms in his arms, trying to get to the bed.

"She's okay," Boyd grins, perching on the edge of the bed and settling the cat next to Grace. "She's got a nice bandage – which she's already tried to take off – so she has to keep the cone on for a few days, and she's had lots of stitches and some antibiotics. Nothing's broken, and there's no damage to anything other than skin and a little bit of muscle – she should heal up absolutely fine. Oh, and Molly has fallen in love with her and wanted to keep her, but I said you needed her to look after you so she had to come home. So that's it, catastrophe over."

"You went to get her in the middle of the day, for me." She's so touched that words fail her. "Peter, I…"

Boyd shrugs. "I'm too busy to worry about both of you," he explains. "I thought if I fetched her for you, then you'd both be together and that would be one less thing to think about. You can look after each other now."

There's so much he isn't saying, so much kindness that he'll never admit to, simply because he's a man and more awkward than most sometimes, but it doesn't matter because she knows and she understands. Reaching for his hand, she squeezes, a silent, shared communication slipping between them.

"I hated the thought of her being shut up in a cage all day," he admits, the fingers of his free hand tracing the spots on Freyja's body as she stretches out against the length of Grace's chest, burrowing into the warmth of the bed and the blankets. "And you looked so lonely this morning when I left you."

That guilt again, hot and hard and heavy in her chest. "I'm sorry," she whispers, looking down, hating herself for being unable to hide it.

"No." A big, warm hand cups her chin, an easy pressure there encouraging her to look up at him. "No," he repeats, shaking his head. "This is hard on you, and hard for me, too. And that's okay. We'll get through it, Grace, but not by hiding how much it hurts, or how angry or upset or whatever else we are, okay?"

He's right, and she knows it. Offers him a nod and weak but heartfelt smile in response as she twists her head until she can press her lips to his palm in thank you.

There's a lot of regret in his eyes as he straightens, sighs and tells her, "I need to go, before Spencer starts asking too many questions."

"I know," she murmurs, already close to sleep again. It's becoming a real battle to keep her eyes open. "It's okay. We'll be here when you get home."

Boyd smiles then, and it is real and genuine. "I should hope so," he replies, tucking the blankets closer around her and giving Freyja one last tickle. "And I will look forward to it."


End file.
